by Danice Allen
“’Tis no use, miss. Ye’d never catch ’im,” said the man, his strong fingers biting into her flesh where he still held on to her arm. “Why dinna ye jest come with me, and I’ll find ye a hack t’ fetch ye home—”
Gabrielle pulled herself free of the man’s grip. Being told that she couldn’t do something always made her all the more determined to do it! She gritted her teeth and hurtled herself through the crowd, now and then throwing out a “pardon me” with such ferocity, a few surprised people voluntarily stepped aside. She headed straight for the corner around which the lad had disappeared. Inconsequentially she noticed that “Jem loves Ethel” had been scribbled in coal in large letters on the wall. She took the turn sharply, only to see the boy turning another corner, and then another, till she had followed him deep inside a lonely section of wynds far from the main thoroughfare.
Gabrielle stopped and caught her breath for a moment, craning her neck to try to glimpse a small piece of sky above the gothic, towering tenements. The closeness of the buildings was stifling. And the smell was worse. Human waste, stagnant water, and rancid cooking odors made the bile rise in her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand and tried to ward off the horrid smells with the wool of her mittens.
Gabrielle was sure now that the boy had outrun her, but she needed to stand perfectly still for a moment until the nausea passed, then retrace her steps to the main road. But as she stood there, with only the persistent pattering of snow melting off the gables and plunging into puddles in the street, she heard another sound. It was the sound of someone breathing hard. Was it the boy catching his breath? If so, he was just around the corner! But if she could hear him, surely he must be able to hear her, too? But perhaps he didn’t know he’d been followed all this time.…
Gabrielle moved quickly to the edge of the building, then, hoping to surprise the boy, she swiftly rounded the corner, unfortunately landing on a patch of black ice. She slid, her feet flying out from under her. She fell on her bottom with an “oomph!,” her hands and elbows scraping painfully against the ice as she braced herself.
Gabrielle’s bonnet fell forward, for a moment obscuring her view. She let out a hiss of frustration, straightened to a sitting position, and pushed back her bonnet with her forearm. She fully expected the child to have run away by then, as she obviously had not made a stealthy approach! But there he was, hunched over on a doorstep not ten feet away, rummaging through the contents of her reticule, his blond head bent to the absorbing task.
“You!” she shouted. “What’s the idea of taking something I’d gladly have given you if only you’d—”
Belatedly the lad looked up, his face reflecting the shocked fear of an apprehended criminal. He clambered to his feet.
Gabrielle couldn’t believe her eyes. “Will? Will Tuttle, is that you?” She’d wanted to see the boy again. She’d wanted to see his whole family, his little sister particularly. But she’d not expected their reunion to be like this!
He recognized her immediately. His face reflected myriad emotions, the most prominent being shame. Gabrielle stared back at him, her anger rapidly dissipating. His face was thin and pale. There were dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes. He looked sick and hungry.
Gabrielle moved to stand up. Everything hurt, and it took some rather graceless maneuvering to heave herself from the ice to an upright position. Finally she managed to stand, her fingers gripping a brick for support that stuck out from the adjacent wall. When she lifted her eyes, her reticule lay on the ground, but Will was gone.
“Will? Will, come back! I’m not angry!” she called, pivoting to scan the dark corners of the alley. But except for the persistent dripping from the roofs, all was once again silent.
A heaviness fell over Gabrielle, a depression as dark as that which she’d felt when she’d witnessed Zach driving away with his ladybird. The poor boy, she lamented silently, her heart twisting with pity, her thoughts filled with self-reproach. Logically she’d had every reason to be upset and angry at Will for taking her purse, but after catching a good look at him, she knew he must have been driven to commit the theft out of desperation. But he was gone, and she’d probably never find him again. The brief encounter had been a quirk of coincidence, and she had lost the opportunity now to ask him about his mother and Bella and the other boys, and to try to help them through their difficulties.
Gabrielle picked up her reticule, a sharp pain stabbing the small of her back as she bent over. She straightened carefully, rubbing the tender spot. Her coin purse was still in the reticule, still full to bursting with the generous amount of pin money her mother sent regularly for incidental spending. It could have fed the Turtles for a month at least. Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t crying for herself. If only she’d not yelled at him. If only she’d—
“Lookin’ fer the lad, are ye, miss?”
Gabrielle whirled around and found herself facing a woman her own height, but considerably heavier and older. Even in the late afternoon shadows Gabrielle could see that the woman’s face was thickly coated with cosmetics. Rouge and powder filled the deep creases on each side of her bright red lips and was also unattractively settled in the numerous lines that fanned out from her eyes. Her hair was piled high atop her head, though not very neatly, and the untidy tresses were the most unlikely shade of carrot red that Gabrielle could imagine.
Chapter Seven
“Did ye hear me, miss, or are ye deaf like the lad?”
This stirred Gabrielle out of her reverie. She wiped the tears from her eyes with two quick swipes. “Like the lad? Will is … deaf?” This would explain how she’d snuck up on him so easily, why he’d seemed not to have been aware of being followed.
“He was’na born that way, but he’s been sickly all winter, and he seems t’ hear less and less each day.” The woman grinned, an inappropriate accompaniment to the sad news. Her teeth were dingy yellow against the garish red of her painted lips.
“You know Will, then?” Gabrielle couldn’t help snatching a glimpse of the woman’s clothes, though she’d been taught better manners than to gape at someone, particularly if she was not as well dressed as herself. But this woman gave Gabrielle an unsettled feeling that had nothing to do with the embarrassment of wealth face to face with poverty. The woman’s clothes were in much better condition than Gabrielle had expected. The material from which her gown was made appeared costly, and the shawl hanging over her arms was of a finely worked lace. But the impression altogether was slatternly and immodest. The gown was tight, the bodice revealing a generous amount of bosom. The woman smelled as though she hadn’t bathed for a fortnight.
“Done with summin’ me up, have ye, miss?” Gabrielle’s eyes clashed guiltily with the woman’s. She bit her lip and shifted her eyes to settle on a door behind the woman which stood slightly ajar, a beam of light from the room beyond spilling into the dim alley. She thought she saw movement through the crack, as if someone were there—perhaps even watching them. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms and down her back.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” Gabrielle mumbled, then hastily added, “You obviously are acquainted with the Tuttles, and I would consider it a great favor if you would give me their directions.” Fumbling through the process, Gabrielle reached into her reticule, dug a shilling out of her purse, and offered it to the woman. “I will gladly recompense you for your trouble.”
Gabrielle’s fingers shook. She tried to compose herself, since it would not do to appear frightened and vulnerable. The woman might decide to throttle her and take the reticule from her, claiming the entire contents for herself. In such a case, she’d much rather have had Will succeed with the original theft!
The woman eyed the coin for some time, then darted out a hand to grab it, the sudden movement making Gabrielle flinch. She looked up at the woman, who was smiling again, as though frightening her had given some sort of perverse pleasure. “How is it ye’re all alone in this part o’ town, miss?”
Too quickly Gabrielle blurted, “Oh, I’m not alone! Not at all! My carriage is just—” She motioned vaguely in the direction she’d come from, knowing full well that even if a carriage were waiting for her, it would be too far away to serve as any sort of deterrent to crime. “Just ’round the corner.”
The woman raised her kohl-darkened brows. “I see.”
Gabrielle felt her cheeks suffuse with color. She was quite sure the woman did see—right through her miserable attempt at impromptu lying. And she was sure the woman had noticed she’d been crying. Gabrielle could still feel the tracks of tears on her cheeks, icy and stinging in the dropping temperature.
“Come this way, miss,” the woman said, turning and gesturing toward the door behind her.
Gabrielle didn’t move. “Will lives here? I thought this was your house?”
The woman nodded. “Aye, miss, ’tis my house, but this is the back entrance. The front opens onto a square where the lad lives. ’Tis the fastest, safest way to get there. Otherwise ye’ll have t’ backtrack.”
“I’m Gabrielle Tavistock. What’s your name, madam?” Gabrielle was stalling, or maybe some desperate part of her thought that if they were on terms of polite acquaintance, the woman wouldn’t seem as menacing to her.
“What does it matter, miss?” said the woman, sneering. “It’s not likely we’ll be meetin’ fer tea sometime in the future, now is it? But I’ll tell ye anyway. ’Tis Mrs. Henn.”
Still Gabrielle hesitated. The woman turned again, her look impatient, indignant. “Do ye want me t’ help ye or not, miss? I’ve no’ got all day and night t’ dally wi’ ye.”
The alley grew darker and darker. Gabrielle knew it must be nigh onto five o’clock by now. Soon it would be pitch black, and she’d never find her way out of the confusing maze of back streets. A vision of her lifeless body in the gutter, like the body she’d seen earlier that day, flitted through her mind. After visiting with the Tuttles, Will could surely guide her to the main thoroughfare and help her catch the attention of a hack driver. She had no choice but to trust this strange woman. The alternative, the idea of facing unknown dangers alone in the dark, was even more frightening.
Gabrielle took a step forward. Mrs. Henn cackled her approval—not a reassuring sound—then turned and walked into the house. Gabrielle followed. She had just stepped inside the room, registering for a brief moment the candle-lit interior decorated in faux splendor—secondhand facsimiles of Georgian drawing room accoutrements, red velvet swags clashing with purple brocade chairs—when a hand holding a foul-smelling cloth clamped over her mouth and nose.
Gabrielle struggled, but strong arms held her fast against a hard, flat chest obviously not belonging to the busty Mrs. Henn. The room spun. Gabrielle was falling … falling … Zach, where are you? she wondered silently, desperately. You ’re always there for me when I need you. I need you now! Over the edge of the cloth pressed so painfully against her face, Mrs. Henn’s clownish face reappeared, grinning. It was the last thing Gabrielle saw before darkness engulfed her.
Douglas McKeen watched with mixed emotions. Hidden in the shadows, he’d seen and heard everything. The princess, this Gabrielle Tavistock, was as green as grass, and as ripe as a nicely rounded peach ready for picking. And now “Mother” Henn had her. Soon a man would be sent to High Street for the purpose of spreading the news to well-paying customers that Mother Henn had a Quality virgin for sale and would be taking bids for the privilege of bedding her.
Mother Henn could see a hapless female a mile off, most of her victims being new lasses in town, fresh from the country. But this naive little idiot had walked straight into the beastie’s lair. Mother Henn was probably gleefully blessing Lady Luck and deciding on a high sum as barter for the lass’s “company.” She would bring a pretty penny, that one, so bonny as she was.
Well practiced at packing up and moving on to another spot to avoid the police, Mother Henn harbored no worries about despoiling a lass of obvious Quality like this one, with parents undoubtedly on the lookout for her. She’d make use of the girl, then release her into the street, reeling from the aftereffects of drugs and rape. Once returned home, the girl’s family would then take great pains to ensure that nobody ever found out about their daughter’s scandalous misfortune.
Douglas shook his head. His conscience was picking at him. But his designs for the girl hadn’t been well-intended, either. He thought he’d nearly caught the princess when he’d saved her from falling. He’d planned to take her back to his place and arrange an exchange for Kate, but she was a feisty one with a will of her own. He’d let her get away, and now his plan was no longer feasible. After Mother Henn was through with her, the lass would not be seen in Old Town again. She’d not be so feisty, either, he’d wager.
Douglas felt another twinge of conscience. Reflexively, he took a swig of whiskey, the warmth seeming to go straight to his head, dulling honorable urges, rationalizing revenge. After all, the lass was connected to that Wickham fellow, the man who was keeping him away from his Kate. If the lass didn’t precisely deserve her fate, Wickham, at least, deserved the suffering he would endure because of what would happen to her. Douglas shrugged his sloped shoulders and staggered out of the alley toward home.
As Zach’s carriage rattled over the cobbles through Old Town, dusk fell. Zach kept the carriage lantern burning low, the light from it just bright enough to illuminate the pleasing picture of Kate, fast asleep and nestled in the opposite corner under two blankets. He didn’t want to disturb her rest till absolutely necessary, for though their excursion had been quite enjoyable, it had also been most fatiguing for a young girl breeding with twins.
Kate had wanted to stay till dark so that they could watch the torches lighting up and the skaters making designs on the ice with their bright, shining beacons held overhead. That was a nightly sight during the winter in Edinburgh, but Kate had been well and truly trapped in Auld Reekie for so long, and so continuously under the influence of strong drink, she’d not been able to enjoy much of anything.
Zach smiled, remembering how much she’d relished the sticky buns. She’d eaten three, the little glutton, explaining coyly that one was for her and that the two others were for each of the twins. There was a tiny, glittery spot of sugar glaze in the middle of her left cheek, and a thin strand of hair stuck to it. He leaned forward, lifting the strand, each hair separating individually from her cheek. She opened her eyes.
“That tickles, Wickham,” she said with a sleepy smile. “Why dinna ye tell me that my face was dirty?”
“A gentleman never tells a lady such a thing,” he teased, settling back into his side of the carriage.
Kate straightened up. “I’m a lady, am I? Not exactly, Wickham, and dinna ye argue wi’ me!” She waggled an admonishing finger. “I’ve had enough of that fer one day.”
“As you say, madam,” Zach acquiesced with a smile.
Kate wet the three middle fingers of one hand with her tongue and wiped away the sticky spot. She gave him a sly look. “I’m always suspicious when ye’re so agreeable—Oh!”
Zach leaned forward, watching anxiously as Kate pushed back against the carriage squabs, a grimace on her face. “What is it, Kate? Are you having a pain?”
“No, not a pain exactly, but near enough.” She chuckled, pressing both hands to her stomach. “Sometimes these babes get to kicking both at the same time, and in opposite directions. I feel as though I’m being stretched out like a too-small pair o’ boots, so’s the little angels can have more room fer themselves!”
Zach laughed, relieved. “Boys, I’ll bet. They’ll lead you a merry chase once they’ve got legs under them. Ah, we’re here.”
As the carriage jerked to a stop, Zach was surprised to discover Blake waiting at the curb, lantern in hand. “What is it, Blake? Is something wrong?” he asked as John opened the door.
“Yes, friend, something is terribly wrong. It’s happened before, but this time with thy help perhaps the worst can be avoided
.”
Zach frowned. “What do you mean?”
Blake flickered a glance behind him, and Charlie moved into the light of the lantern. “Charlie, take Mrs. McKeen upstairs.” Blake handed him the lantern. “’Tis far too cold for her to wait outside while friend Zachary and I talk.”
“Dinna ye fret, Blake,” said Kate with a little grunt as she maneuvered her stomach through the carriage door, “I ken that ye’re wantin’t’ talk t’ Wickham private-like.” She turned to Zach and assumed an outrageously accurate pose of a simpering debutante. “Thank you, Wickham. I’ve had a lovely day.” Then she extended her fingers to be kissed. Diverted by her liveliness, Zach complied, returning her saucy gaze over the top of her hand.
“Good night, Kate,” he called to her as Charlie escorted her through the door. “Take the steps slow, Charlie, and let her lean on you.” Charlie and Kate glanced over their shoulders, both throwing him looks of amused exasperation that implied that they were perfectly capable of exerting common sense without Zach’s fussy interference.
When they were out of sight, he turned back to Blake. “Now, Blake, come inside the carriage and get cozy, then tell me what’s the to-do.” Mr. Blake hesitated. He seemed restive, worried. Perhaps he thought the comfort of the carriage would offend his Quaker’s preference for plainness and even minimize the urgency of his news. But there were shadowed figures creeping up and down the street, and Zach knew that their business would be best discussed and dispatched from the relative safety of his carriage. “There are a few people about, Blake,” he said in a low voice. “Inside they won’t hear what we’re saying.”
Mr. Blake nodded and gave a tired sigh, his breath showing in the frosty air like a miniature cloud, then he stepped into the carriage. Once they were both settled inside, Blake spoke. “A boy, who resides nearby, came to the shelter not an hour ago. At present there is a house of ill-repute operating in the boy’s immediate neighborhood. There are, of course, many such despicable establishments in Old Town, but this particular one is run by the most unscrupulous woman of any of the hardened Cyprians who ply such a trade in all of Scotland, I’d wager.”
